


heart's a mess

by Yellow



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, hoo boy, i wrote some porn, insecure viktor: the musical, mentions of mediocre past sexual experiences, viktor probably picked up some weird coping mechanisms from his child fame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow/pseuds/Yellow
Summary: And then-the flip-and then, the kiss, and then Yuuri made it to the Grand Prix final by the skin of his teeth, and Viktor had so much to say about his skating that he couldn’t get out for a full day afterwards because Yuuri had let him go, had turned to Viktor with nothing but conviction in his eyes and hobbled his chances in the free skate, all for the sake of Viktor’s beloved pet.If he didn’t know before, he knew then. Yuuri cared about him. He didn’t care about Viktor Nikiforov. He cared about Viktor. The hard part, then, was believing it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (you won't admit to it  
> it makes no sense-  
> but i'm desparate to connect)
> 
> this anime ends in three weeks and it turns out i still had 4k of viktor headcanons knocking around, so here they are, before they HOPEFULLY get jossed by canon viktor backstory.
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> enjoy

No one’s treated Viktor like he was a regular person since he was seven, since his coaches looked at him and knew he would be a success one day.

               He doesn’t much mind. It wouldn’t change anything if he did. Besides, he has the other skaters at his rink, who get used to him after a while. He doesn’t mind if they watch him skate with bated breath.

               He has Yakov, who treats him more and more like a wayward son as he gets older. He’s fluent in grumbles, shoulder clasps, and the minute changes in Yakov’s default ‘unimpressed’ face.

               He has Makkachin. Makkachin’s a good listener.

 

               The best part of people expecting him to just be a flighty socialite is that he can get away with a lot. He’s turned misdirecting the press into an art. It’s not that Viktor is always serious and straight-laced-he _loves_ being petulant and contrary, to Yakov’s dismay. But most people assume there’s nothing going on beneath all that, that he doesn’t stay up at night thinking about his routines, and lately, what he’s going to do after this season. Yakov knows better than that.

               So when he flies to Japan on a whim and the hint of an opportunity, Yakov might be annoyed with him, but Viktor thinks it’s his own fault for being surprised. Viktor’s never been happy left stewing in his own thoughts, and this time, skating couldn’t even be the cure.

               Well. Not Viktor’s skating, at the very least.

                Yuuri Katsuki is _different_ , someone who made it to the Grand Prix but still has no self-confidence to speak of. Talented enough to perform Viktor’s routine better than Viktor himself on the off-season, but who placed last in the Grand Prix.

                He idly wishes he had seen Yuuri’s free skate. It’d been years since he had gotten enough time to himself during competitions to watch other people skate-the media was on him from the second he arrived to the second he left, if he let them. No matter. He was here in Japan now anyway.

 

                He teases Yuuri out of habit more than malice. He wouldn't have done it if it weren't fun, though. And Yuuri is so pretty, Viktor thinks, especially when he's blushing.

                Yuri Plisetsky showing up is an unexpected blessing. It's just enough to snap Yuuri out of his dis-belief and get him to really work, now that Viktor being his coach is threatened. It's a little unfair to both of them to agree to the competition, but ice skating has never been fair, and in Viktor's opinion they're both good enough to do fine without his help, if they could just figure out their issues on their own.

                Luckily, it turns out that Yuuri Katsuki is possibly as petty as Viktor is stubborn.

 

                And then-the flip-and then, the kiss, and _then_ Yuuri made it to the Grand Prix final by the skin of his teeth, and Viktor had so much to say about his skating that he couldn’t get out for a full day afterwards because Yuuri had let him go, had turned to Viktor with nothing but conviction in his eyes and hobbled his chances in the free skate, all for the sake of Viktor’s beloved pet.

                If he didn’t know before, he knew then. Yuuri cared about him. He didn’t care about Viktor Nikiforov. He cared about Viktor.

                The hard part, then, was believing it.

 

 * * *

                Viktor gets sick the week after the Rostelecom Cup.

                Yuuri doesn’t notice at first, because Viktor tries to hide it. He hates being sick and he hates the thought of being cooped up in his room at the onsen. He manages well enough for a while. He’s had practice.

                They’re at the rink and Yuuri is running through his routine. There will always be something to improve, but the time repeating the routine, over and over, hammering it into muscle memory-that is sometimes the difference between nerves taking over and a good performance.

                Viktor blinks. His vision goes blurry. Suddenly, Yuuri is on his side of the wall, helping him sit, calling his name. Last Viktor had seen of Yuuri, he was launching into a triple flip.

                “Viktor? Viktor!”

                “Yuuri?’ Viktor asks, bleary.

                There’s a cool hand on his forehead and then it’s pulled away. Viktor tries to follow it, but it’s too much work.

                “You’re burning up,” Yuuri says. He sounds worried.

                “I can still skate,” Viktor says.

                Yuuri frowns at him.

                “Okay,” Yuuri says, and Viktor has the feeling it wasn’t an answer.

                Viktor’s wearing sneakers, but Yuuri reaches down and starts unlacing his own skates.

                “What about-” Viktor asks, waving his hand at the rink.

                “I’m going to walk you home, and then I’ll come back.”

                “I said I’m fine.” Viktor puts a hand to his head and tries to stand. Yuuri grabs his arm and lowers him back down to the bench.

                “I’d believe you if you said you could land a quadruple loop when you were asleep; that doesn’t mean you’re fine,” Yuuri says. He bows, exaggerated. “Please, go home and take a nap, to quell the worries of your poor student?”

                Viktor hums. “Okay,” he says, magnanimous. Ever since Yuuri mentioned sleep his bed at the onsen seemed more welcoming.

                Yuuri hauls Viktor to his feet and they walk slowly to the onsen. Viktor can’t seem to get his feet under him, but Yuuri makes up for the balance he lacks, chattering pleasantly all the while.

                Viktor’s eyes are slipping closed by the time they reach the inn. He simply remembers someone fighting him to swallow a pill, that same cool hand on his forehead, and then being covered up to his chin.

                Being told to sleep.

                Viktor does.

 

                He wakes up, and oh. He tries to move and is hit with a wave of nausea that has him immediately horizontal again. He waits a moment and it passes, but a moment later it’s back, rolling through him in waves.

                “Yuuri,” he calls, horribly embarrassed. He doesn’t even know if Yuuri’s home.

                “Yes,” he hears, and then the pad of feet gets closer and Yuuri walks in, closing the door behind him fast enough that Makkachin can’t slip in.

                “I,” he starts, and throws a hand over his forehead. “Do you have a trash can?”

                “Are you not feeling well?” Yuuri says, already rummaging around. He sets a trash can down by Viktor’s head and rests a hand on his forehead again. Viktor is sweating, and Yuuri’s hand is warm and dry.

                “Yes,” Viktor breathes, trying to stay as still as possible so his stomach will calm down.

                “Do you want anything? Water?”

                “I’m okay,” Viktor says, strained.

                Yuuri stays there anyway. It’s mortifying to be so sick, but Yuuri just stays with him, a quiet, steady, presence, and Viktor is grateful. He remembers long days in his apartment, trying to muster the strength to call Yakov and tell him he’d be out, or to take medicine. Makkachin would curl up with him until he was sick enough he didn’t want to be touched, and then he’d have to close the door to his bedroom and listen to her whine on the other side.

                He eventually feels good enough to fall back asleep.

 

                Viktor wakes up what he assumes is a few hours later, and Yuuri isn’t there.

                “Yuuri!”

                Footsteps, and then, “Viktor! How are you feeling?”

                “Better.” It’s true. He’s foggy but he can move without wanting to vomit, which is an improvement.

                “Do you need anything?”

                Viktor thinks.

                “Water?”

                Yuuri returns a few minutes later with a glass, and after tucking Viktor back in, tells him to go back to sleep, turns the light out, and leaves the room.

                Viktor calls out for things he doesn’t need-tissues, blankets, juice, pillows-until Yuuri finally sits down next to his futon with a sigh. He starts playing with Viktor’s hair.

                “Viktor,” Yuuri says, pleasant, “are you being annoying on purpose to get my attention?”

                Normally Viktor would scoff and act insulted, take offense that Yuuri was so cruel to an invalid, but he’s sick and he wants Yuuri there with him so he closes his eyes and says, soft, “You still answered. Every time.”

                Yuuri’s hand stills in his hair, then picks back up. Viktor sighs.

                “Of course I did,” Yuuri says, voice thick. “I always will.”

                “Oh,” Viktor says.

                “Do you want me to stay?” Yuuri asks, and Viktor thinks, always. He might say it out loud, too, but Yuuri’s face is getting blurry, and it’s hard to keep his eyes open. Yuuri laughs and strokes his bangs out of his face.

                “Silly thing,” he chides, and it’s too warm for Viktor to feel properly scolded. “Go back to sleep.”

                 This time, Viktor does.

 

                Yuuri never brings it up beyond a chirpy, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” When he’s finally, truly better, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he kisses Yuuri, thoroughly, until Yuuri can hardly stand.

                “Thank you,” and he hopes Yuuri knows what for. He runs a hand through Yuuri’s hair, pushes back his bangs.

                He’s not good at words, but he’s trying. Yuuri’s smart and perceptive and he gets it, even when Viktor doesn’t, so he hopes Yuuri understands.

                Yuuri curls their pinkies together and smiles up at him, so he must be doing okay.

 

* * *

                They wait a long time to have sex. Yuuri’s always training, and even though Viktor loves sex, feels Yuuri’s eyes trailing him and shivers-too much of the time they’re too tired or distracted. Besides, cuddling Yuuri is nice in a way that seemed previously unattainable to Viktor-the simple pleasure of holding someone and them expecting nothing else from you.

                He wants this to be good for Yuuri.

                Yuuri is waiting for him, there, in their bed, and Viktor almost can’t stand it. What if he ruins this all? Yuuri is so beautiful and so trusting and what if he hurts-

                Viktor kisses Yuuri’s neck because it’s easy, whispers the things men told him his first few times into Yuuri’s skin, works his fingers under Yuuri’s shirt.

                “Viktor.”

                It’s quiet enough that Viktor stops and looks up at Yuuri. He’s solemn.

                “Is this really you?”

                Viktor’s heart stops.

                “What do you mean?” he asks. He knows what Yuuri means.

                “It doesn’t feel like you’re looking at _me_ ,” Yuuri says, pursing his lips.

                “You’re right,” Viktor blurts. He chews his lip. “I,” he starts. “I-I don’t know what to do.”

                Yuuri blinks.

                “Haven’t you-”

                “Yes! Yes,” Viktor says. “And it’s been-good, but.” He pauses. “No one’s ever called me out on that before. People expect one thing from me, and.” He shrugs one shoulder.

                Yuuri’s eyes narrow.

                “Have I ever done that to you?”

                Viktor feels shame hit him like a whip.

                “No,” he says. That’s why I’m here, he thinks. Because you see me as more than just a performance.

                What he says is, “It’s been a long time since someone cared what I wanted.”

                Yuuri’s still a little pissed at him. “Then what do you want?”

                “You,” Viktor blurts, and Yuuri’s face goes soft. Viktor raises a hand and rubs his thumb over Yuuri’s cheekbone, unthinking.

                “More than that,” Yuuri says, smiling, and Viktor thinks, what more could I want.

                What he really says, though, is: “I want to kiss you.”

                “Okay,” Yuuri says, and leans in.

                His lips are soft. Yuuri’s less hesitant than he was even a few days ago, and Viktor lets him take the lead. They kiss slow. Viktor pulls back for air and then kisses Yuuri again, dizzy with it. Yuuri’s tongue smooths across his lower lip and Viktor shivers. Yuuri pulls back, breathing a little hard.

                “Good?” he asks, and Viktor feels himself blush.

                “Yes,” he manages, and leans forward. He parts his lips and lets Yuuri’s tongue into his mouth. Yuuri’s hand moves to his, and Viktor takes it, places it in his hair.

                Yuuri pulls, and Viktor gasps into Yuuri’s mouth. He feels Yuuri smile against his mouth, and he uses his leverage to tilt Viktor’s head up. Viktor’s dick jumps.

                “Still good?” Yuuri asks, grinning when Viktor tries to nod. His mouth is dry, and he just waits for what seems like minutes until Yuuri starts kissing his neck.

                Viktor usually likes being in control. He can’t think. He tries to remember the last time he let someone manhandle him like this, and he only can recall the boys in dim American gay bars.

                Someday he’ll tell Yuuri that story, maybe late at night, holding hands in bed. It wasn’t bad, he’ll say, not all of it-looking back, he remembers the kind older men who watched out for him, who knew who he was but didn’t say a word. At the time, he was more concerned with being told he was pretty, and strong hands in his long hair, and-and he never went home with anyone too horrible, he’ll say, and Yuuri’s fingers will tighten on his, everyone in the bar made sure of that, but there were some who didn’t care about what he liked, not really. Then he’ll ask, what about you, and he can’t imagine what Yuuri will say.

                (He’ll say _it was you, Vitya,_ voice thick. _I never had to-it was always you_.)

                 But that-even the men who came after, who knew him better, who laughed at his bedhead and who made Viktor think, maybe, they were nothing like this, nothing like his Yuuri.

                Yuuri has him held tight, moving to pin Viktor’s wrists to the bed, but then he’s had Viktor held tight for a while now, not with just his hands but with his whole person. His smile. Viktor couldn’t look away if he wanted to.

                Here, now, with Yuuri, it feels good to let someone else do the work. Yuuri bites his shoulder, just low enough to be covered by his v-necks, and Viktor throws his head back, closes his eyes. It feels good to be claimed. To be wanted. He thinks about the mark he’ll have on his shoulder, just for him and Yuuri. Viktor shivers.

                “What do you want?” Yuuri asks, and it’s deeper than Viktor expects. Breathy. Viktor swallows, opens his eyes.

                Yuuri is looking up at him with his pupils blown wide, all the intent Viktor thought he didn’t have written on his face. Viktor just stares at him, and Yuuri bends down, starts kissing Viktor’s chest.

                “Viktor,” he says, drawing the sound out. “What do you need?”

                Viktor pulls Yuuri up by his shoulders and kisses him, deep, rough. He bites Yuuri’s lip and flips them so he’s on top. Viktor grinds down, and moans, feeling how hard Yuuri is beneath him. Yuuri looks a little stunned, but he kisses back just as hard. Viktor pulls Yuuri’s hand up to rest at the spot on his shoulder that’ll bruise tomorrow, presses his hand down. Yuuri gasps. Their teeth hit once, twice, and Viktor finally pulls back.

                “You’re doing fine,” he says, “but hurry up and _touch me_.”

                Yuuri narrows his eyes, then wraps his legs, his strong thighs, around Viktor and flips them over again. The second Viktor hits the bed, Yuuri is on him. Viktor forgets how strong he is when they’re off the ice. Another openmouthed kiss, then Yuuri is licking and kissing down Viktor’s body, rubbing his nipples.

                Yuuri’s not as experienced as some of the men Viktor’s slept with but he makes up for it with enthusiasm, and intensity. And it’s _Yuuri_ , which is enough to make Viktor ache just thinking about it, that’s _Yuuri_ kissing him.

                Yuuri puts a hand on his dick, and even with a layer of fabric between them Viktor shoves his hand in his mouth to keep from screaming. He squeezes his eyes shut but Yuuri keeps moving, his hand stroking down the front of his underwear. His other hand moves to the waistband.

                “Is this okay?” he asks, and Viktor hisses, “Yes.”

                Then his dick springs up, and he’s so hard it almost hurts. Yuuri sucks in a breath, then says, shaky, “I want to-Can I suck-" and Viktor shudders.

                “Yes,” he breathes, and then Yuuri has as much as he can fit in his mouth.

                Viktor bites down on his hand again.

                “Fuck,” he says. “Yuuri, _fuck-_ ”

                Yuuri tries to take more of Viktor and has to back off, but he tries something with his tongue, running it back and forth as he swallows as much of Viktor’s dick as he can, then backs off to just the head. Viktor tries not to arch up, takes staggering breaths. Yuuri holds onto his hip so hard he thinks it might bruise. With his other hand, Yuuri puts Viktor’s hand in his hair, and Viktor holds on tight.

                He tugs, just a little, and Yuuri moans so prettily that Viktor thinks, through his haze, that’s something we’ll be doing more of.

                Yuuri’s mouth is warm, and wet, and when Viktor looks down and see Yuuri, working as hard as this as he does on his routines out on the ice, Viktor’s hips jerk.

                Yuuri coughs a little, but doesn’t stop.

                “Sorry,” Viktor says, gasping, and runs his hand over Yuuri’s hair. “You’re so good,” he says, and Yuuri bobs his head faster, runs his nails up Viktor’s side.

                “Fuck,” Viktor says, “Yuuri, I’m-” but Yuuri keeps going, licking and sucking and overwhelming Viktor with the heat of his mouth.

                Viktor stays on the bed by virtue of Yuuri’s hand pressing his hip down. He comes with a strangled breath. Yuuri keeps moving, grounds Viktor with his fingertips, pressing one by one into his hip.

                Viktor lies there and breathes for a moment. Yuuri withdraws and kisses his hipbone, tender.

                He pulls Yuuri up and kisses him until they’re both panting again.

                Yuuri reaches for his zipper.

                “Let me, let me,” Viktor says, almost frantic. He reaches for Yuuri’s pants-he hadn’t even taken off his _pants_ \- and undoes the zipper, then runs a hand down the front of his underwear. Yuuri whines, and Viktor swallows.

                “May I?” he asks, and Yuuri helps him push down his boxer briefs, until his cock springs free.

                Viktor stares.

                “You’re so pretty, Yuuri.”

                Yuuri squirms a little until Viktor kisses the side of his neck. And then Yuuri’s sighing and Viktor’s back in control. Except he watches Yuuri close his eyes and bare his neck and Viktor feels a warm, heavy weight in his stomach. He doesn’t want to disappoint this man.

                “Do you want me to-” Viktor starts, moving to lower himself, and Yuuri shakes his head, looking back at Viktor.

                “I want to kiss you,” he says, and averts his eyes. Viktor’s heart skips a beat.

                “Of course, darling.” Then he’s reaching down and wrapping his hand slowly around Yuuri’s dick. The skin is soft and Yuuri jerks when Viktor touches him. Then Viktor kisses him and starts stroking, and Yuuri yelps into his mouth.

                Viktor twists his hand, kisses the corner of Yuuri’s mouth. He’s too distracted to kiss back, but Viktor kisses his mouth, his chin, his neck. Yuuri’s starting to moan and arch up into Viktor’s touch. He’s so reactive, so sensitive. Viktor twists his hand again, and Yuuri jerks.

                “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Viktor says.

                Yuuri comes with a gasp, like it was startled out of him. Viktor kisses his neck again, soft and slow, and holds him until his breathing slows down, then goes to get a towel.

                He cleans Yuuri’s chest and his hand and then lies back down. Viktor buries his face in Yuuri’s shoulder, and smiles when he feels a hand in his hair.

                “Was that good?” Yuuri asks. He sounds sleepy.

                Viktor laces their fingers together. “Was it good for you?”

                “Yes,” Yuuri says.

                “Me too.” What he doesn’t say is: thank you for asking me what I wanted. Instead, Viktor squeezes Yuuri’s hand and says, “Get some sleep.”

                Viktor rests his chin on Yuuri’s chest and looks up at him. Yuuri’s looking down at him and trying not to let his eyes close.

                “You first,” he says, stubborn even when he can barely stay awake.

                Viktor kisses his nose.

                “Okay,” he says, amused and fond, and turns his head to the side, closing his eyes.

 

* * *

                The weeks go by and Viktor is startled by how much his hair has grown since he arrived. He plays with it more, even clipping it out of his face on a few occasions.

                Yuuri notices, because it’s Yuuri.

                They’re taking a break for lunch, and it’s just the two of them at the rink today. Yuuko and Takeshi are at the triplets’ school for a class exhibition. Viktor remembers twelve hour days at the rink, not eating, and he’s strict about breaks. It was never Yakov’s fault he worked that long, it was his own obsession-but Viktor still insists. Luckily, Yuuri listens better than he ever did.

                Viktor leans against the bench and twirls his hair around a finger, remembering how it felt when it was long.

                “Are you growing it out?”

                Viktor hums. “Not on purpose.”

                “I liked your hair long,” Yuuri says, then blushes. “I mean, I like it now too. The bangs suit you.”

                Viktor smiles. “I liked it long too.”

                “Why’d you cut it?” Yuuri asks, and takes a drink from his water bottle.

                Viktor sighs. “I had to change my look to fit my new theme. Look more masculine.”

                “I never thought too much about that,” Yuuri says, wondering. “I was always just me.”

                Viktor’s heart constricts.

                “Of course, Yuuri,” he says. “Your honesty, your guilelessness. That’s what drew me to you in the first place. You never needed to change.”

                “You didn’t need to change either,” Yuuri says, quiet.

                Viktor has to turn away.

                “Time to get back to work, yes?” he says, and Yuuri glides back onto the ice, but he can feel Yuuri’s eyes on him.

 

                He should have known Yuuri wouldn’t let it go. Stubborn man.

                Yuuri has been waiting up for him to get back from walking Makkachin, and he’s barely in the bed before Yuuri’s rolling on top of him.

                Yuuri kisses his cheeks, his nose, his chin. Viktor laughs. It tickles.

                “What is this about?”

                Yuuri kisses the corner of his mouth.

                “You might have had to control your appearance before but you don’t have to now,” Yuuri says. Viktor suddenly doesn’t feel like laughing. “I know you’re still in the spotlight, but you-you can do whatever you want now.”

                Viktor thinks that’s a little naïve. He also realizes, yes. He isn’t performing anymore. The only image he has to fit is that of a competent coach, for Yuuri’s sake.

                “And,” Yuuri says, “I told you I liked your long hair, which was true, but what I liked most of all was you.”

                Viktor swallows, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

                “Even if I had shaved my head?” His voice wavers.

                “Even then,” Yuuri says, soft and earnest.

                Then, “oh, Viktor,” he says, and wipes away Viktor’s tears with a thumb.

                Viktor hates crying in front of people. He usually can manage himself better than this, but Yuuri. Yuuri is an exception, in every way. He buries his face in Yuuri’s shoulder and Yuuri lets him, brushing back his hair.

                “I would _prefer_ you didn’t shave your head, of course,” Yuuri says.

                Viktor laughs, watery, and throws an arm over Yuuri.

                “Yakov would tell you not to give me ideas.”

                “It’s okay,” Yuuri says, deadpan. “I would just shave my head to match.”

                “Yuuri,” Viktor says, laughing.

                They fall asleep that way, eventually, and afterwards, Viktor notices Yuuri calls him clever, strong, brave, kind-beautiful, too, some nights, when Yuuri and Viktor are wrapped up and entranced in each other, but never in a way that makes him feel he is only beautiful, merely beautiful-it is always a superlative, not a definition.

 

* * *

                “How did you learn English?” Yuuri asks him, one night in bed, playing with Viktor’s hair.

                Viktor hums.

                “Yakov started coaching me when I was 12 and he insisted I improve my English.” Viktor laughed. “He said it was an important skill.” Viktor looks down at Yuuri. “I guess he was right.”

                Yuuri smiles back at Viktor. “I went to college for English,” Yuuri says, quiet.

                “Really?” Viktor asks. “You have a degree?”

                Yuuri nods. “I figured if skating didn’t work out, after so much time in Detroit, I could translate.”

                Viktor blinks. “That’s smart,” he says. He can’t remember ever being told that skating ‘might not work out.’ He can’t remember thinking it.

                “I never got a degree,” Viktor says into the pillow. He knows Yuuri knows, but there’s something good about saying it out loud.

                “Why not?”

                No one’s asked that before.

                “Too busy skating,” Viktor says. “School was boring in comparison.” And I didn’t need to worry about what-ifs when I was nineteen, twenty-one, he thinks, but spares them both saying it out loud.

                Yuuri hums, runs a hand through Viktor’s hair. “You could always go back to school.”

                Viktor swallows. “I could,” he says.

                “Do you want to?”

                Viktor is technically retired, and he still doesn’t want to think about what will happen when he retires. To anyone else, he’d say something flippant, make a joke. But this is Yuuri. He won’t get away with it, and he doesn’t really want to.

                No one’s asked what he’s wanted in a long time. Except Yuuri.

                “I don’t know,” Viktor says, and he swallows, trying not to cry. Yuuri puts a hand on his cheek and Viktor finally looks back at him.

                “Hey,” Yuuri says. “You don’t have to know.” He smiles. “Actually, I’d be happy if you waited a few months, at least.”

                Viktor just looks at him for a few moments, taking in the crinkles at the edges of Yuuri’s eyes, the little flyaway hairs near his part.

                “I’d be happy if I waited a few years,” he says, quiet.

                Yuuri starts to get that faraway look of self-doubt in his eyes again, but Viktor brings him back by kissing him. And kissing him.

                The best part of falling asleep with Yuuri isn’t how warm he is-you’re a furnace, Viktor complains, kicking off the blankets-or the way they get tangled together despite Viktor’s habit of kicking in his sleep. It’s that when Viktor wakes up he knows someone who loves him will still be there.

                And as much as Viktor fucks up, it’s worth it, for every smile, for every kiss, for that bone-deep certainty that Yuuri loves him. They’re both learning, and what Viktor wants most of all is to become a scholar of Yuuri Katsuki, his whole life through.

**Author's Note:**

> tapdances  
> as always, find me at zevraanarainai.tumblr.com


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